Anne Bronte

Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here

What though the Sun had left my sky;
To save me from
The blessed Moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there

O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;